The Art Of Deduction
by wittynight-sherlocked
Summary: AU where Sherlock and Moriarty are artists. Johnlock. No angst. Not sure how long it will be, but ten at the most. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

He swept paint smoothly across the canvas, going up, then curving to the right. Moving down and to the left in ridges, and then coming back up to meet the origin of the brush strokes to form the outline of a skull.

He dipped the brush in black and mixed it with brown. He began painting the shadows created by the eye sockets, the nostrils, and the cheekbones.

The cheekbones; hard and pointed, like his own.

He painted every detail in the skull, down to the very last glimmer of light reflecting off of the teeth, down to the very last yellow spot of aging.

The artist sat back in his chair to examine the painting. The skull that sat on the mantelpiece in his flat was cold, dead, and lifeless. Like him.

He sat forward and found an inconspicuous place in the corner of the canvas and signed his initials.

_S.H._

Chapter One

John wandered aimlessly in the park, coat collar turned up against the harsh autumn wind. _What was he even doing here?_ John couldn't remember how he got to the park. His mind had been a blur since he got home from Afghanistan. _Home. _London didn't feel like home anymore, even though it seemed to be the same, familiar city he had left only months before.

"John! John Watson, is that you?"

John looked over his shoulder, trying to spot the man who had called his name. He recognized no one and started limping forward.

"John! It's Mike, Mike Stamford. Remember me? We studied together at Bart's." John stopped and finally located the man, who was panting with the effort of trying to catch up with John.

"Oh yes, of course. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, I've just been . . . distracted . . ." John trailed off, unsure what to say next.

"No problem, I have gained a bit of weight since our days at Bart's." Mike chucked, unaware of how uncomfortable John seemed to be. "Join me for coffee, I'm on a break. Lets catch up!" And he led John off to a nearby café, not listening to any of John's objections.

John looked around the café while Mike droned on and on about his life since Bart's, giving him the occasional "mm hmm," or "sure." He acknowledged the few people behind the counter brewing coffee, the couple in the corner cuddling on the couch, and a man enjoying a morning latte at a table by the window. His eyes rested on a man with jet-black hair, a dark coat, and a blue scarf sitting directly across from a painting on the wall, seemingly admiring it.

John examined the man's face; now it seemed like the painting confused the man, like he was lost in it.

"John?"

John snapped his head up at his friend. "What?"

"Who are you looking at?" Mike turned to find the source of John's apparent fascination. "Well, I'll be damned. Sherlock!"

The mysterious man turned toward them. "You know him?" John asked.

"We have a mutual friend, Greg—not important. Sherlock, come over here!"

The man, Sherlock, strode over to their table. "Hello, Mike."

"Sherlock, this is John Watson."

Sherlock's eyes never moved from Mike's face. "Pleasure. Mike, is there something you desperately need right now, at this very moment, that may be at least somewhat interesting to me? Because I really do need to get back to—"

"Well, Sherlock, you had mentioned to me that you were looking for a flatmate."

John interrupted whatever Sherlock was about to say. "Sorry, is that supposed to be me?"

"Well, you said you were looking for a flatmate."

"When did I say that?"

"I asked if you liked your place here, or if you were maybe thinking of getting a flatmate, and you mumbled back a 'yeah,' so…"

John thought for a moment, and then realized he was miserable living alone. Maybe that was his problem. No social interaction.

"Er, sure."

"Good," Sherlock said in a deep baritone. "Well, John Watson, I'll be expecting you around, say, 14:00 tomorrow afternoon?"

John looked up at the man, slightly intrigued by his opportunistic attitude toward getting a new flatmate on the spot. _He seems different from any other man I've ever met._

"I don't even know where—"

"221B Baker Street."

"And what's—"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock winked unexpectedly at John and then turned to walk out. "Afternoon," he called over his shoulder.

John stared through the window at him until he could no longer be seen, then turned back to Mike.

Mike chuckled. "Good luck."

"Oh, hello sweetie. You'll be Sherlock's new flatmate then?" A sweet older lady let him into the flat and was trying to help him lift a suitcase up the staircase, despite her obvious hip problem. "You two really do make such a cute couple!"

"I've got the suitcase, no need to help," John said. Then he realized what she said. "Wait, no – we're not dating – no . . . "

John saw the look Mrs. Hudson was giving him and gave up.

He reached the landing without much trouble once the landlady stopped trying to help and knocked uncertainly on the wooden door. _Should I really be doing this?_

"It's unlocked!"

John pushed open the door, unsure of what to expect.

Sherlock was sitting in the middle of well over a hundred cups of tea and mountains of used tea bags. He paid his new flatmate no attention as he looked from one cup of tea to the next, his fingers steepled under his chin.

"What is all . . . this?" John asked stupidly, mouth agape.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't even look up from his cups. "I'm comparing these teas."

"Oh right," John said sarcastically. "Why?"

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "If you must know, a few days ago I bought myself a cup of tea. It was a fruity tea, no doubt made with strawberries or raspberries. The color of the tea was absolutely beautiful, it was a deep, rich red, but I don't remember what kind of tea it was or where I got it, and I drank it all. So, I brewed 129 cups of 129 different teas that have either strawberries or raspberries in them. I've narrowed it down to these four. I must find out which tea it was."

"Was it really that delicious?"

"Not the taste, John… The color! I must know the color of the tea so I know what color to paint the tea with." He gestured blindly around the flat, still buried in his cups.

John finally turned to more closely examine the flat. There were paintings all over the room of mundane objects such as kettles, flowers, stools, and books. On the mantelpiece: a skull next to its painted counterpart. On the wall, Sherlock had painted a yellow smiley face. Finally his eyes found an unfinished painting of a cracked teacup with no tea in it.

"Are you sure it was just one type of tea?"

And then it came to Sherlock. He leapt across the room and grabbed John. "Come on!"

Sherlock dragged John downstairs and out of the flat, turning right and taking off down Baker Street. The two ran three blocks and stopped in front of Meghan's Tea Shoppe.

Sherlock pushed the door open. "Same as the other day, Meghan."

"Coming up!"

They waited a few minutes and she brought out a cup of tea that smelled of strawberries and raspberries, as well as cherries. It really did have a gorgeous color.

Sherlock raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. He stared into the cup for a moment, and then a smile grew on his face.

"I take it you've found your tea," John said.

John had put the last of his jumpers into his closet and was just opening his laptop when he heard Sherlock come in.

"When you're done, come into the sitting room. I want to paint you." The mysterious artist returned to the main room without bothering to wait for a confirmation.

What an odd man. John figured that he would humor the painter. It won't be a bother to me, and it wouldn't do to piss off this guy on the first day. Besides, maybe I can find out more about him.

When he walked back into the sitting room, Sherlock was hunched over the painting of tea, adding the last of the highlights to the spoon. John was amazed at how exact the painting was. The painting was perfect – from the color of the tea to the tiny, vague reflections in the cup and spoon. It seemed more accurate than a photograph.

"Oh my," John breathed. "That's so . . . perfect!"

Sherlock seemed to wake up from the secret little world he was in. "No it's not. The wood grain isn't properly aligned." He didn't seem too bothered by this.

Sherlock set the now finished painting on the ground next to his easel. "So you consent to be painted?"

"Er . . . yeah, of course."

"You will not like everything I paint. I will not gloss over your recent trip to the Middle East, the post-traumatic stress you suffer, nor the fact that you can't go to your brother, Harry, for help due to the dissolution of his marriage." Sherlock did not look up at John as he prepared a new canvas and cleaned his used brushes. "I will paint you as you are."

John's jaw dropped, and he couldn't form words for several moments. "Um . . . what? I mean – well – Mike told you about me, didn't he?"

"No, I observed. It's what I do."

Sherlock silently moved John to the chair opposite the window so he could paint John in natural light. He had John sit with one leg bent over the other, with one hand resting on his right knee, and the other sitting on the armrest.

John was looking straight at Sherlock, his eyes boring holes through the painter's skull. Sherlock was looking back at him with such concentration that Mrs. Hudson would have thought they were having a staring match.

Sherlock memorized the curve of John's nose, the gentle ridges of his cheekbones, the shadows under his eyes, the softness of his thin hair, and the color of his lips. The color. So unique, thought Sherlock.

Sherlock began painting, and silence ensued for about thirty minutes. John managed to sit still for that time, but as soon as Sherlock sat back and announced that the head was done, John immediately raised his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, tired from behaving so stone-like for so long.

"So, Sherlock. Why do you paint?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there has to be a reason. I didn't become an army-doctor on a whim, you know."

"No, you became an army-doctor because you wanted to do something with your life, be useful. Do something that actually mattered."

John's forehead creased again in confusion. "How did you-"

"I became an artist because I'm good at it. When I paint, I really look at my subject matter. I see everything there is to see about it. I can paint what I see. So that's what I do."

"Ah. Is that how you knew everything about me?"

"Precisely. Now keep the rest of your body still, I'm not done with it yet."

John obeyed. "By the way, why do you want to paint me?"

"John, I don't want to paint you. I need to paint you. It's for an exhibit I'm doing at the gallery on 38th."

"Yes, you need subject matter, but why me?"

"Because all I ever paint are ordinary objects, objects with no meaning. They're lifeless. You, however... You are a human being. You are full of life."

"Right. What's wrong with teacups and skulls?"

"They're boring. Tedious. Uninteresting."

"Your opinion or the gallery's?"

"Theirs, but I adopted the idea." Sherlock sighed. "He's right."

"Who's right?"

"Greg Lestrade. He owns the gallery, calls the shots. I hate to admit it, but my art really has no meaning. He said that if I couldn't bring any life to my paintings, he'd give the exhibit space to another local artist, James Moriarty." Sherlock frowned, but the look quickly vanished. "However, a brilliant opportunity has now arisen: you. You were in the war, you're a doctor; you must have such stories to tell. But you don't have to talk, the paintings will do it for you."

John thought for a moment. He really had never modeled for anything before. And he had certainly never met anyone with as much talent as Sherlock. This was something new. Sherlock was something new. Something different. Maybe that's what he needed. "Alright."

"Good." Sherlock smiled and focused back on the painting.

A few moments went by, and John spoke again. "By the way, Harry's my sister."

Sherlock's brush slipped.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"What the hell are you doing to my face?" John yelled.

It had only been two weeks since John had moved in with the eclectic artist. While John had finally managed to shake off his antipathy toward the world and get a job, Sherlock had not left the house and had nearly driven John mad by obsessively drawing and painting him. Sherlock was slowly committing to memory how John looked right after a shower, how he looked while he was doing his exercises, how he looked when he was asleep, and so on. It seemed like the artist's mysterious blue-green eyes never left John.

"I'm making sure that I'm painting your eyebrows the right colour." Sherlock carried on dabbing the cold oil paint on John's forehead as if it was a perfectly common thing to do at—_Wait, what time is it? _John glanced at his alarm clock and groaned. _Three o'clock in the bloody morning._ "Oh god, Sherlock."

Sherlock froze. "Not good?" he asked, his paintbrush suspended in midair, halfway to John's forehead.

"Just a bit not good, yeah." John's voice dripped with as much sarcasm as he could muster in the middle of the night.

Sherlock blinked at him and wiped the oil paint off John's forehead. "If you insist."

"I insist." John pulled the covers back over himself and curled up in his bed. "I expect a full apology first thing in the morning," he grumbled.

"Ah, but we are going out now. You've obviously been missing excitement since you got back from Afghanistan, and breaking into an art studio ought to solve that."

John didn't move.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I apologize for waking you up." John turned to stare at Sherlock in confusion. "John, Mrs. Hudson seems to have told you that I never apologize."

"She did."

"She's wrong. Clearly."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright. I'll come. If you make tea." Sherlock smirked and left the room.

As the kettle boiled, John stumbled out of the room, still in the process of putting on his favorite striped jumper.

"There's a cab waiting downstairs." Sherlock handed John a steaming cup of tea and started walking down the stairs. "Hurry, or I'll leave you behind." Sherlock gave John a funny little half smile that John couldn't help returning as he raced after Sherlock, completely and utterly confused about what they were doing.

John expected Sherlock to explain once they were situated in the cab, but no such luck. "What are we doing here? Where are we going?"

"We're breaking into an art studio." Sherlock kept his brilliantly blue eyes shut and steepled his fingers under his chin.

"Yeah, I got that before." John snuck a glance over at the artistic genius. He looked calm, almost normal. His thick black hair curled perfectly around his oddly attractive face… John caught himself staring and quickly looked out the window at the buildings whizzing by. "And _why_ are we breaking into an art studio?"

"It's Moriarty's studio."

"Oh, you mean the artist giving you a run for your money?" John chuckled. Sherlock had mentioned him a couple times and the way Sherlock described his "archenemy" never failed to amuse John.

Sherlock's expression darkened. "Yes."

"You've never explained why you hate him so much." John risked a glance at Sherlock, who was running his hand through his soft curls.

"I cannot figure him out. His paintings are… wrong." Sherlock looked almost flustered, an expression that John had ever seen before. "He is… chaos. I don't know why people like his art, and I cannot stand not knowing. He is a puzzle and I _will_ figure him out." Sherlock's expression melted from desperation to excitement, as if he was pleased to have a problem that needed solving.

John didn't know what to say after that, so the remainder of the cab ride was consumed by silence.

"Stop. Here." They pulled up in front of a large flat complex. Sherlock threw some money at the cabbie and jumped out, looking more alive and excited than John had ever seen.

Sherlock easily picked the lock and swooped into the apartment, hesitating only slightly to make sure that John was following. _Strange_, Sherlock thought as he climbed up the stairs, John hurrying to keep up. He had never slowed down for anyone, but the ex-army doctor continuously seemed to make himself an exception. He certainly wasn't the least bit boring.

"See? Look at it! It's not accurate, it's . . ." Sherlock had been staring at a large painting for nearly ten minutes, and he clearly did not understand modern art. He was actually speechless—_for once._

"Sherlock, it's not supposed to be accurate. It's art! Even a boring old doctor like me knows that art isn't really about accuracy," John reasoned.

"You're not boring," Sherlock snapped, suddenly tense. He relaxed his muscles and began to pace the room.

Sherlock stopped in front of a different painting and stared at it in silence. John gave an almost inaudible sigh. It was exciting to be running around London and doing illicit things in the middle of the night, but he was tired, and he was going to have to get up for work in just over two hours.

"You can go, if you wish." Sherlock had not turned around and John gaped at the artist. "Don't look so surprised, you're tired. Also, I heard you sigh. As I said before, you may leave." Although not letting on, Sherlock was surprised at how bothered he was by the possibility that John wanted to go. He tried to remind himself that caring is not an advantage.

John did want to go, but he wasn't about to leave Sherlock alone in a flat that didn't belong to him. Or, that was his reasoning for what he was about to say. "No. I'm staying."

"Actually," A voice came from across the room, "you'll both be leaving. Now." A shorter man with brown hair had opened a door leading elsewhere in the flat and was looking at them like he had just woken up. He looked a bit like a lizard. "Ah. It's you, Sherly." He giggled. "You'd better run now!"


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

There was a loud bang as the door of 221B slammed shut behind John and Sherlock. Both of them were panting heavily, as Moriarty had called up to his flat mate, "Seb," to chase them out of the apartment.

"Do you… know him?" John asked, wheezing.

"I've often seen him at galleries… with Moriarty… yes…" Sherlock gasped, his sides splitting with the exertion of running nearly 27 blocks back to their flat.

"Are they… you know?"

"Are they what?"

"Together?"

"Well, why does it matter?" Sherlock asked, annoyed.

John shrugged and changed the subject. "What was the point of all that? Why did we break into his flat just to look at his artwork?"

"I wanted to examine his paintings."

"And you can't do that at a gallery?"

"Well, I would, but there is not a single gallery that holds a work of art by Jim Moriarty."

"I don't see how-"

"Moriarty refuses every offer, that's what makes him so invaluable to all these venues, especially Lestrade's. They want what they can't have, so they keep increasing their monetary offers. Moriarty, though, Moriarty doesn't want their money, he has no interest in material things. He does, however, have an interest in me and in my downfall as an artist, which means he will obviously do anything to ensure that I am never successful, or at least that I am not as successful as him. How do I know he is a sadistic genius and not just another determined competitor? He leaves me messages." Sherlock didn't stop for a breath as he tossed an apple to John. _I O U._ "He owes me a fall. Time and time again, he has taunted me with those words… He owes me a fall." Sherlock collapsed onto his black, leather chair and hugged his knees to his chest.

John was surprised, but, for reasons unbeknownst to him, not completely in shock. He knelt down next to Sherlock and rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock."

He grunted in response.

"How many times a day do you hear me compliment your paintings?"

"On average? Forty-seven. And a half."

"And of those forty-seven and a half times per day, on how many occasions do you think I'm lying?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Exactly."

"But-"

"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock."

"No, John-"

"Shut up." John leaned over and hugged Sherlock. "Seriously. You're a brilliant artist, and nothing Moriarty paints can ever even compare to the perfection that is your art."

A single tear found its way to Sherlock's eye, trickling silently down his pointy cheekbone and onto John's jumper. John felt something wet on his shoulder and realized he must have crossed one of Sherlock's boundaries, so he got up and went straight to his room without another look at Sherlock. He didn't want to overwhelm the man.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>"Sherlock."<p>

"Shh, John."

"Sherlock."

"Hold still."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock put down his paintbrush and looked up at John. "What is it?"

"I don't understand why you have to paint me… like this."

"Moriarty says my art holds no emotion, no meaning; however, I'd say 'vulnerable' is quite a good look for you." He smirked and went back to painting John's bare back.

John fidgeted, completely noticed by Sherlock, who in turn cleared his throat loudly.

"Just… one more second… And… done." Sherlock dropped his brush and brought the painting over to John. "What do you think?"

John stared at the canvas, trying to take it all in. He looked at himself from the side, shirtless and curled up into a tight ball on the floor of their flat.

"Incredible," he breathed. John looked up at Sherlock. "Really, really incredible."

Sherlock stared back at him for a second and then averted his eyes, moving across the room to collect his art supplies. "Yes, well. I wanted to paint you to look the way I felt… last night."

"Were you feeling vulnerable? I wouldn't have expected that. Confused or angry, maybe, but vulnerable?"

"John, every fiber of my being revolves around painting. Moriarty is a threat against my ability to produce my art. Without it, I am nothing." Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room. "Nothing."

He stood there swaying on the spot for a moment before regaining his composure and walking to the kitchen to rinse the paint off of his brushes.

John sat down on his favorite chair with his laptop and began to search for Moriarty's paintings. All he could find were paintings of the same man but with different colors and poses. _Seems familiar_, he snickered to himself. He clicked one and read the caption:

For my dearest Seb, another portrait of you awaits. Come and get it~

"They are together! I knew it!" John called to Sherlock.

"Who?"

"Moriarty and Seb! All of Moriarty's paintings are of the guy we saw in his flat. I guess now we know why."

John heard the familiar clatter of paintbrushes being dropped, followed by yet another outburst of realization from Sherlock.

"That's it!"

"What is?"

"I have to paint something I have an emotional attachment to! That's been my problem all along! Of course Moriarty thinks my paintings are meaningless, I don't care about my subject matter." Sherlock caught himself. "That is, _most_ of my subject matter." He nodded at John, whose brow furrowed as he pointed at himself and mouthed _Me?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded. "I have to paint you."

"You do paint me. All the time."

"No, no, you're right. I have to paint you differently."

"I don't think that's even possible! You've painted me at every possible time, in every possible pose, in every possible outfit-" he cut himself off. Sherlock was staring at the floor uncomfortably.

John's eyes widened. "No. No. Absolutely not. No."

"What?"

"You are not painting me nude."

"John, please don't be a child."

"Sherlock, for one thing, you know that just about everyone we know already thinks I'm gay. And another thing, wouldn't it just be weird? With you being you, and all…"

"What do you mean me being me? And you know perfectly well that I don't care whether you are or not, and why does it even matter?"

"Because you would be painting your naked male flat mate, that's why! And you know what I mean."

"No, really. Tell me."

"You don't…" John shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "You aren't… You're not… familiar… with… you know."

"Sex?"

John said nothing.

"John, I am perfectly familiar and comfortable with the human body. Painting you nude has nothing to do with sex. It has to do with emotion. Do you understand?"

"Barely."

Sherlock put his head and his hands and tried to concentrate.

"John. I need you to do this. Please."

John thought for one moment, one agonizingly long moment. "What if I say yes, what then? Are things going to be different around here after you've seen me without clothes on?"

Sherlock laughed. "Renner case. Remember?"

John went red. "Right. Well, in that case. Where do you want me?"


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's note [Rachel]:_ Okay, so I know I updated yesterday for the first time in a few months, and this is just barely almost 900 words, but I needed to write _something_. So here. Yeah.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Five<em>

John was lying on their black leather couch, breathing shakily and turning bright red as Sherlock silently painted him from head to toe.

"John, your involuntary twitching is making this rather difficult."

"Right, well I wouldn't want to complicate anything for you."

Sherlock sighed. "Are you mocking me?"

"I don't know, Mr. all-seeing eye of perfection. Am I? Why don't you deduce the tone of my voice?"

"You are," Sherlock said quietly.

"No shit, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes. However, he saw Sherlock's eyes begin to water and apologized. "Sherlock, you know I don't mean it. You _are_ painting me while I'm naked. I can't exactly say I'm comfortable."

"Do I, though? Do I know you don't mean it? John, everyone mocks me, and everyone means what they say about me being a psychopath—even though they're wrong, they clearly mean sociopath—and I don't want to have to deal with it coming from you."

"You do realize you call me an idiot all the time?"

"I call Lestrade an idiot, too. It's a term of endearment. You'll notice I tend to call Anderson 'filth.' Obviously there's a difference."

"Obviously," John laughed, but then he got confused. "Why me and Lestrade?"

"Well, Lestrade is a close friend."

"And me?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "You are as well."

"So why didn't you move in with him?"

"He's married—Or he was."

"He got a divorce—no, nevermind. Later." John cracked his neck, sending a shiver up Sherlock's spine. John chuckled to himself. "Well, I must be something special, then, for you to put up with a boring, average guy like me by your side 24/7."

"You are."

John blinked. "I am?"

"You are special." Sherlock's eyes flicked toward John's and then back at the painting. He rested his brush on his easel and redirected his attention to the floor. "You are not average, and you are not boring. You are my friend, but you are much more than that. You are… for lack of a better word, my anchor."

"Your _what_?" John let out with a laugh.

"Shut up. You are the one who keeps me grounded when I begin to drift away from reality, the one who makes sure I eat, sleep, and breathe as much as I paint, and the one who makes sure I'm alive even when I feel like there is no point in continuing."

John stared at him, shocked. "Is there any particular reason you're telling me this _now_?"

"I feel as though my emotions may be compromised. I'm not sure why."

"Well, you're painting your naked anchor of a best friend in the flat you share together. For starters." _What am I saying… What am I saying?_

"But what does that have to do with my emotions? And since when do I have a heart in the first place?"

John's mind was racing. _Could Sherlock actually have feelings for him? The idea seemed impossible, and yet…_ "Sherlock, have you ever been in love?"

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped up. "No, no, of course not."

"Well, then you obviously don't know what it would feel like if you were in love."

"No, I suppose not. Are you suggesting-"

"Yes."

"Oh. Do you have any evidence to back up your hypothesis?"

"No."

"Do you need any?"

"It might… help." John was becoming breathless.

"Right." And in one single, fluid movement, Sherlock was on the other side of the room, kissing John. He pulled away. "Is that sufficient enough to prove your hypothesis true, John?"

"I think we may need to run a few tests." John tugged on Sherlock's scarf, pulling him closer and closing the gap again between their lips.

They sat there together for a moment, completely still, simply exploring the way the other's lips felt. John slowly opened his mouth to continue kissing Sherlock, and Sherlock followed suit. "John, you do realize…" Sherlock said between kisses. "You're naked…"

John laughed. "Shit. Do you need me to go put some clothes on?"

"No, it's fine. I'm not bothered by it-"

"That's reassuring-"

"But I figured you might be."

"You're worried I might be bothered by kissing my flat mate while not wearing any clothes, but you didn't care about it when you were painting me?"

"Emotion, John, emotion. I wanted to portray your nervousness about the situation."

"Right…" And with that, John rolled on top of Sherlock and continued kissing him.


End file.
